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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956270">Eight Nights of Dean Winchester</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kweh/pseuds/Kweh'>Kweh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Jewish, Angel Wings, Chanukah, Child Neglect, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jewish Winchesters (Supernatural), John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, child endangerment, latke discourse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:34:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kweh/pseuds/Kweh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's always had a complicated relationship with Judaism. Especially with Chanukah.</p><p>Or, what if Supernatural were Jewish?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. First Night - 1982</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is sort of a proof of concept for a much broader AU that I'm working on. One ficlet uploaded a night hopefully taking place during different years of Dean's life.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean grabs onto her jeans and tries to pull himself up onto his toes to see what Mary has in the skillet. She shifts her feet slightly to bump him gently a few inches to the left and out of range of any oil that might splatter out of the pan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m making latkes, Dean.” When she glances down at him, he appears to be thinking deeply about her answer. It reminds her momentarily of when she and John had tried explaining that she was pregnant. Eventually, they’d settled for the tried and true answer of growing a little brother or sister inside her tummy. “They’re potato pancakes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s eyes widen in amazement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pancakes?” he repeats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep! Pancakes,” she answers with a chuckle as she starts pulling the finished latkes out of the oil and sliding them onto a waiting paper plate layered on top of a stoneware one. “It’s Chanukah, honey. You know how we light candles for Shabbos? We’re gonna light even more for the next few days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aba wants to tell you the story once he’s set up in the living room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean frowns, looking mutinous at being denied an immediate explanation. Mary turns the stove off and slides the oil filled pan onto a cold burner. She pulls a few paper towels off the roll and begins to pat the extra oil up, humming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, angel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean looks back towards the kitchen door and then up at Mary. He wraps his fingers around the cord of her apron and tugs, leaning close to whisper, “I don’t want to eat outside. It’s cold.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mary laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean, that’s Sukkot, not Shabbos.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Knew that!" Dean protests, puffing his cheeks out angrily. Mary laughs harder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Found your parents’ hanukkiah in the attic, Mary,” John says loudly from the other room. “You want to put it up or should I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mary frowns, eyes drifting away from Dean and out the kitchen window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The front window,” she answers, finally, when John repeats her name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John ducks around the doorway a few minutes later as Mary is picking up the plate of latkes and getting ready to take Dean out into the living room. He grins and swings Dean up into his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, buddy, helping your mom in the kitchen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want to help me start a very little tiny fire?” John whispers conspiratorially and Dean screams an affirmative into his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John, don’t let him near the candles. He’ll get burned!” Mary yells after them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t hear you, Mary!” John yells back. “Come on, it’s candle lighting time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fire!” yells Dean, just to add his opinion to the mix.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No fire,” Mary says firmly following them and putting the plate down on the coffee table. She sits down and rubs her stomach, wincing. John looks at her worriedly and she waves a hand. “Stretch mark I think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods and sets Dean back down on the floor. He runs back to the table and Mary hands him one of the cooler latkes from the bottom before he grabs one of the ones from the top.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“McDonald’s!” Dean chirps as he chews.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to try it with applesauce?” Mary asks, smiling when John mutters, “Sour cream,” and starts filling her parent’s hanukkiah with oil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ketchup!” Dean decides with a shout.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John groans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna take him out into the woods and leave him there,” he says good naturedly and walks back toward the kitchen to grab the toppings from the fridge. "We'll teach the next one not to disrespect tradition.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No you’re not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna think about it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Second Night - 1983</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Posting a little early since it's Shabbos.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the morning, John finds Dean inside Sam’s crib. His small body is curled protectively around Sam, face pressed into Sam’s sparse hair. Sammy is wide awake, laying on his back and staring up at him, waving his fists in the air and chewing on the wrist of Dean’s shirt. John reaches down and starts carefully prying Dean’s fingers loose from where they’ve white knuckled the fabric of Sam’s pajamas.</p>
<p>Dean jerks awake with a small panicked noise from the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“Easy, son, it’s just me,” John assures him as he lifts Sam up and cradles him to his chest.</p>
<p>“Ba,” says Sam, wanting to feel included in the conversation. John murmurs the morning blessing and bounces him gently. The words feel hollow, but it’s habit now.</p>
<p>Dean sits up and watches him.</p>
<p>“You gonna stay in there all morning?” John asks firmly and he hears the irritation in his voice, but the words are already out of his mouth. Dean’s nearly five and too damn old to be sleeping in a crib and seeing him in it every morning tears at something in John that he doesn’t want to examine too closely. Dean's eyes go wide and he looks away, face scrunching and John can't, he can't do this, not today. "Don't cry."</p>
<p>Dean scrambles out of the crib and is halfway to the bathroom before John can find the energy to muster some sort of apology.</p>
<p>Damn it.</p>
<hr class="solid"/>
<p>By the time he’s changed and dressed Sam, Dean’s vacated the bathroom and is getting dressed. He accepts Sam when John passes him down and all three of them go downstairs together. Like they have every morning since the fire.</p>
<p>“Morning, John,” Mike says from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table. There’s a binder of files from the garage in front of him. “Coffee’s in the pot.”</p>
<p>John pours Dean a bowl of cereal and grabs a jar of baby food for Sam. He ignores Mike kissing Kate goodbye when she comes in a few minutes later, dressed for her shift at the Gas-N-Sip across town, and breathes a sigh of relief when Mike leaves half an hour later without saying a word to John about him maybe coming in to work today.</p>
<p>He still needs to do so much. Too much. The insurance office is refusing to move forward with the claim on the house until the police have finished their investigation and Mary’s life insurance is in limbo along with it, so John’s eating into their savings now.</p>
<p>Dean and Sam’s college funds are still untouched and John plans to keep it that way. They’re not desperate yet and he’s still holding out hope that the police might get their heads out of their asses.</p>
<p>Eventually, he and the boys might be able to get out of Mike and Kate's house and away from their stifling sympathetic looks, Kate's gentle insistence he should see a therapist, and Mike's pushy questions about his job. Right now though, he needs to replace the title on the car and get new copies of their birth certificates and social security and every other possible thing John could need that wasn't his driver's license.</p>
<p>Everything had been in the damn safe and it'd all burned up by the time the fire department got to it.</p>
<p>Sam starts crying, twisting away from the spoon Dean is holding out to him. Loud hiccupping sobs that rattle through John's bones. In order to get even one or two of the things started—not done, none of this will ever be done—he's going to need Dean to watch Sam while he makes phone calls. Dean, who hasn't said a word in weeks, and follows John around like a shadow when John isn't actively trying to keep him nearby.</p>
<p>He watches Dean try to feed Sam for another minute before taking the spoon from Dean with an aggrieved sigh. Dean sits back in his chair and frowns into his cereal bowl. John decides he’ll take the boys down to the JCC instead.</p>
<hr class="solid"/>
<p>The JCC turns out to be a bust.</p>
<p>Dean won’t leave his side longer than it takes him to use the bathroom and John can’t trust anyone else to hold Sam long enough to focus on him either. There’s very few people he trusts with Sam these days. A few people from their shul and Kate on those days when he’s had to go down the police station for another round of questioning.</p>
<p>They wind up standing by the bleachers in the gym watching an impromptu basketball game between several of the older members, including Cantor Ruth from their synagogue. John likes Ruth. She’d caused something of the stir when Beth-El had hired her, especially once her roommate Kathy had shown up, bobbed hair tied up under a handkerchief and wearing jeans on Yom Kippur.</p>
<p>Mary had spent six weeks convincing John to go back. He'd only done it because she'd put her foot down and threatened to take Dean with her to a hotel. The next nearest shul was sixteen miles away anyway.</p>
<p>John still doesn’t like it exactly, but Ruth doesn’t flaunt her relationship around and she’d been damn helpful when Mary's pregnancy had taken a bad turn during her third trimester and they'd been worried they were going to lose Sam. Kathy’s also got a nice Triumph bike and a wicked sense of humor, so John keeps his opinions to himself and enjoys the company.</p>
<p>When the game ends, Ruth jogs over.</p>
<p>“John, it’s good to see you finally,” she says with a grin and then she crouches down to say hello to Dean. “Do you think you could meet me at Beth-El today?”</p>
<p>“What time?”</p>
<p>She looks down at her wristwatch and frowns, thinking.</p>
<p>“Four-thirty? I have to get ready for the candle lighting tonight.”</p>
<p>“Candle li—”</p>
<p>Ruth looks sympathetic and kind when she nods and John clutches Sam a little tighter and reaches down to touch the top of Dean’s head. He’d forgotten the date.</p>
<p>“Something we’re trying this year. I know Steve is dropping the twins off at five before he has to go to work and Julie can’t light candles in her new place—landlord’s a piece of shit—so she’s coming, a few others just because,” she explains. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want, but I’m sure everyone would like to see you and the boys.”</p>
<p>He feels Dean tip his head so he can look at him and John nods.</p>
<p>“Yeah, we’ll see you tonight.”</p>
<hr class="solid"/>
<p>They get there a little bit before four-thirty, John pulling into a park spot near the back door. There’s a few cars already parked, including Ruth’s gold Chevette in her usual spot. Once they get inside, he instructs Dean to go to Ruth’s office. Anxiety almost sends him walking off after Dean disappears around the corner, but Sam decides the moment of peace has ended and he’s back to crying again and that gets the attention of the people setting up.</p>
<p>“John!” Kathy calls from the kitchen door to John’s left. She wipes her hands on a towel and throws it over her shoulder, looking at Sam. “Do you mind?”</p>
<p>He does, but he doesn’t want to explain his reluctance to give up his son, even for a few minutes, so he just lets her take him. Sam keeps hollering, but Kathy takes it in strides, swaying side to side gently.</p>
<p>“Where are you guys staying?” she asks before John can say anything. “Please tell me it ain’t a motel, John. There’s room at me and Ruth’s place if you need it.”</p>
<p>“No, no we’re fine. My boss at the garage, Mike. He’s letting us use his guest room.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t he vote for Reagan?” she asks, forehead creasing with a frown and John snorts.</p>
<p>“I try not to hold it against him too much.”</p>
<p>“Yeah well you get sick of him, let me know. We got a spare bedroom that only sees use when Ruth’s mother visits.” Sam finally starts to quiet down. Not completely, but it’s an improvement over the noise he was making a minute ago. “I’ll watch Sammy while you go chat with Ruth. Go on.”</p>
<p>He thinks about saying no and taking Sam back. He wants to do it, but he’s been possessively hovering over his children since the fire and maybe he can let this go. For a minute. Just long enough to find out what Ruth wanted.</p>
<p>“Sure thing, Kathy,” he says.</p>
<hr class="solid"/>
<p>Dean’s already inside Ruth’s office, exactly like John told him to be. As John walks up the hallways, he can see him sitting in one of the chairs through the open door, Ruth crouched down on the floor in front of him. She’s talking softly and holding Dean’s hands in her. He’s crying.</p>
<p>“Dean?” John demands and Ruth looks up at him and gestures toward Dean with a tilt of her chin and whispers fiercely at him.</p>
<p>“He needs his father.”</p>
<p>So John does his job—the only job worth doing these days—fitting himself awkwardly into the space on the floor and leaning in to hug his son. Ruth pulls her hands away and Dean latches onto him. John hugs him tighter and Dean’s shuddering quiet tears turn into a wracking sobs. John holds him through it and hears Ruth busy herself on the other side of the room.</p>
<p>Eventually, Dean tires himself out and John stands up and tucks Dean’s head under his chin and lets him sniffle into his collarbone. He looks at Ruth, daring her to say something about his wrecked expression.</p>
<p>“I wanted to give you these,” Ruth says gently and she slides the yahrzeit candles across the desk. “And let you know that if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”</p>
<p>John swallows and picks them up, tucking them into his jacket.</p>
<p>“Ruth,” he starts and then stops, struggling with the words. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>They stay for the candle lighting. Dean’s still not talking yet, but he goes with Steve’s twins when they pull him over to the table to sneak sufganiyot early. John takes the win, however small.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Third Night - 1991</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fingers numb with cold fumble the tension wrench and it clatters to the ground and disappears under the freshly fallen snow slowly piling up on the step where Dean is kneeling. He curses and reaches down to dig it out and then shoves his hands under his armpits, shivering in the dark. This has to be the worst idea he’s ever had.</p>
<p>When some of the feeling in his fingers finally return, he pulls his hands back up and tries picking the lock again. This time the rake actually works and the bolt turns, unlocking the door. He’s inside the garage in an instant, shaking snow off his shoulders and peering into the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of light.</p>
<p>There on the far wall behind the bulk of a minivan is a tool chest. Bingo.</p>
<p>Without the wind, it’s almost warm in the garage, so it only takes one try for him to break into the tool chest. He starts opening drawers methodically, starting from the top and working his way down slowly until he finds what he’s looking for and pockets the hardware he needs. The tube of epoxy is a last second addition. Just in case.</p>
<p>He’s back on the street and walking towards the motel in about ten minutes, whistling Led Zeppelin and admiring the Christmas lights on some of the houses.</p>
<p>Sam’s still sulking when Dean gets back to the room, sitting on the couch and watching TV with his arms crossed over his chest.</p>
<p>“Where were you?” Sam asks, sitting up.</p>
<p>“Out,” Dean answers vaguely. He’s still annoyed at Sam for being such a crybaby about finding out about Dad being a superhero. Like it’s not the coolest thing about their lives. Who else could say their dad fights monsters—well, they can’t. Like so many things, it’s one of those thing Dad says they can’t tell anyone. “I got something for you.”</p>
<p>Sam narrows his eyes.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Just grab the cereal box and help me,” Dean grumbles. He empties his pockets into the dinette table and sits down as Sam heaves himself up from the couch and stomps over to grab the box of Froot Loops from where it’s stashed by the mini fridge. He tosses it up onto the table and hauls himself up into the second chair while Dean starts separating the hex nuts out into pairs and one set of three for the shamash.</p>
<p>“Where’d you get those?”</p>
<p>“Dad gave them to me.”</p>
<p>“No he didn’t,” Sam protests angrily. “Dad left. He’s probably de—.”</p>
<p>“Shut up, shut up right now,” Dean hisses, cutting him off with a glare. “Dad’s gonna be back soon, you’ll see. He said he’d be back for Chanukah.”</p>
<p>“It’s been days.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Dean pulls the epoxy out and drags the cereal over toward him. “He didn’t say when he’d come back so we have to wait. You’ll see.”</p>
<p>Sam’s silent, probably making a face as Dean starts gluing the hex nuts together, pressing them firmly against each other until he thinks it’ll hold together.</p>
<p>“What are you doing anyway?”</p>
<p>“I’m making us a new hanukkiah since we lost the other one.”</p>
<p>Dean remembers Dad and Rufus fighting about it. They’d been yelling back and forth in the living room of Rufus’ house, Dean pressed to the floor with one ear against the crack under the door, straining to hear them. Dad had been saying something about a werewolf, which, awesome, and had stormed out before he could figure out what the hanukkiah had to do with it. Dean and Sam got to stay with Rufus through all of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Sam had sulked all day when Dad came back for them just before Sukkot, which had been fine with Dean. Eating outside was overrated.</p>
<p>“Do we even have candles?” Sam asks. Dean pulls a box of birthday candles from his jean pocket and flicks them across the table to him. “These are birthday candles.”</p>
<p>Dean pulls a face at him and ignores him, gluing the hex nuts into a line on the side of the box until each set he’s made are lined up. The set of three goes at the end on the right. He steals the candles back from Sam, who squawks in protest, and rips the box open, slotting three candles into the right most hex nuts and a fourth into the offset one.</p>
<p>It’s lopsided, the candles leaning at funny angles, the holes just a little too big, and the box is bowing under the weight, but Dean thought up how to do it, so he thinks it looks perfect. Sam squinches his face up when Dean turns it so he can see it better. Dean shoves him lightly in the shoulder.</p>
<p>“Shut up.”</p>
<p>Sam just looks at it for a few minutes, so Dean gets up and goes to find the matches in his backpack. It’s dark outside and he thinks there’s some rules about the time you’re supposed to light them, but he can’t remember exactly. He remembers to light the shamash first and then blanks on the thing Dad would say.</p>
<p>Whatever. He lights the three candles, left to right, slots the shamash back into place and sits back with a pleased smile on his face.</p>
<p>“Here, this is for you,” Sam says as he sits back down. He shoves a newspaper wrapped thing into Dean’s hand. “It was supposed to be for Dad, but he lied. I want you to have it.”</p>
<p>The silver medallion is attached to a leather string and it catches the firelight and shines. Dean rubs his thumb over the six pointed star on one side and then flips it over to look at the design on the other. It doesn’t look like anything he’s ever seen.</p>
<p>“I love it,” he says decisively, deciding to forgive Sam for being a bitch—this time anyway—and slips it over his head. The medallion thunks heavy against his chest and it feels like it belongs there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Fourth Night - 1999</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dean wakes up, he realizes three things. One, his left shoulder is definitely dislocated, two, he’s tied to a chair in someone’s living room, and three, his head hurts. There’s an altar set up on the table in front of him and Dean realizes with rising dread that the murders they’ve been investigating weren’t caused by a werewolf.</p>
<p>He twists his wrists carefully to try and grab his pocket knife, but the movement sends a hot spike of pain up his arm that has him gasping.</p>
<p>“Oh good you’re awake,” says a voice and Dean realizes with a start that there’s someone standing in the doorway into another room of the house.</p>
<p>He tips his chin up and lets the tension out of his body, leaning back slightly to hide his slow painful attempts to get his hand on his knife, and gives the witch an easy smile. There’s no other sounds he can hear in the house, so they’re either alone, or his most recent victim has been finished off.</p>
<p>Or the idiot is tied to a chair because he got hit from behind in a parking lot.</p>
<p>“If you wanted to kill me, you could have just tried a hex bags, you know,” he say. The pocket knife falls into his fingers, and he curls his hand around it and breaths.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to kill you,” the witch explains, walking around toward the altar and leaning down to pick up a knife. “Well, not yet. Most witches don’t want to do the dirty work gathering spell components, you know.”</p>
<p>“Am I gonna wake up in a bathtub full of ice tomorrow?” Dean flinches away from the knife as it’s brought up toward his face.</p>
<p>The witch smiles.</p>
<p>“Waste not, want not.”</p>
<p>That. Dean swallowed. That explained the conditions of the bodies. Dad had been thinking they’d been eaten, either by a werewolf or wild animals after whatever killed them was gone. He starts working on cutting the rope, biting his tongue when he catches his wrist on the blade. Blood wells up and down his hand, making the job go from painful to painful and slippery.</p>
<p>There’s a knock on the front door. The witch straightens up and points the knife at his eye.</p>
<p>“Don’t move.”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t if I wanted to, sweetheart,” Dean snipes with forced calm and relief when the guy walks out of the room. He started saw the ropes, shoulder be damned, and listens to a thin high voice—Dean flinches. Fuck, that’s Sam. What the hell is he doing at the front door? He jerks on his restraint, hoping he can snap the rope with enough force before the knife gets through them.</p>
<p>“Dean, keep quiet.”</p>
<p>“Dad?” he gasps and there’s fingers at his wrist prying at the ropes. They slide away and he curls forward, biting back a groan and reaching to grab his injured shoulder. “Dad, Sam’s at the door, you’ve got to—”</p>
<p>Dad helps him back to his feet and shoves the keys to Impala into his jacket.</p>
<p>“Go out the back door. Car’s parked by the empty lot. Wait there. I’ve got this.”</p>
<p>Dean wants to protest. Sam still misses targets more often than not and he’s still not as tall as Dean or John yet, which puts him at a disadvantage in a fight. He’s not going to stand a chance if the witch realizes he’s up to something.</p>
<p>“Dean,” John says sternly and there’s no time for arguments.</p>
<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p>
<p>He’s nearly at the car when he hears the loud report of a gun echoing in the cul-de-sac. He runs the last few feet, wrenching the front door open with his working arm and letting the other hang dead at his side while he digs out the keys.</p>
<p>John and Sam come running toward him a few minutes later. They’re on the highway in two.</p>
<p>“What the hell happened?” he asks, eyes wide.</p>
<p>“Get on I-90 soon as you can,” Dad orders. “We’ll fix your shoulder when we stop.”</p>
<p>“What about the stuff at the motel?”</p>
<p>“We have everything we need.”</p>
<p>Which means everything but Dad’s journal and everything in the trunk are gone. Again. Dean nods, already trying to think of how he’ll replace Sam’s clothes before he has to go back to school. He’s got a few things in a to-go bag in the back foot well that Sam can take, but that won’t be enough.</p>
<p>“The hanukkiah,” Sam mumbles suddenly and Dean looks at him through the rear view mirror. He looks near tears. “Dean, it was still on the table.”</p>
<p>Of course it was. Dean sighs, somehow not surprised this happened the one week the damn thing left the glove box. They’d lit it the past few nights and then all three of them sat around discussing the case while eating potato chips, Sam’s Rugrats VHS on in the background. It’d been fun.</p>
<p>“God damn witches,” Dean grumbles.</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” Dad says.</p>
<p>“No it’s not, Dad,” Sam protests and he’s clenching his teeth when Dean glances back at him, ready for another fight. Dean can feel his shoulder start aching as tension leaks back into his body. Christ, he can’t deal with this shit right now. “Dean, made tha—”</p>
<p>“Sam,” Dean snaps, eyes flicking back to the road, “we got everything we need.”</p>
<p>He hears Sam throw himself back against the seat and refuses to talk the rest of the drive. Dean tells himself that’s exactly what he wanted.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Fifth Night - 2003</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dad’s at the graveyard digging up the body for the salt and burn, so Dean’s standing in a circle of salt next to a Christmas tree, in the middle of Chanukah. It’s some kind of irony and to top it off, the only thing Dean’s lit this season was a lighter to torch a corpse three days back.</p>
<p>“Christmas is in a couple days, right?” he asks, trying to fill the silence and distract the mother and daughter standing behind him from the fact that dear old Dad came back to try and kill them.</p>
<p>“How do you not know when Christmas is?” the daughter—Dean thinks her name is Julie—asks and it's in that that judgey teenager tone he remembers Sam having. Before he ran off to college. Dean clenches the shotgun a little tighter and shuffles thoughts of his brother aside.</p>
<p>“You know when Chanukah is?” Dean shoots back and he stares hard at a dark shadow on the lanai before deciding it’s just from the orange tree in the backyard.</p>
<p>“Two days.” Thank God for the widow because Dean is pretty sure he almost picked a fight with a snotty fifteen-year old. Dean actually remembers her name. Mae, with an e, which is up there with names like Gertrude and Hermione as names only women over the age of sixty should have. Not that Dean’s got much room to throw stones. Dad named him after a dead relative and a letter. “It’s the first Christmas we’ve had since—since my husband died.”</p>
<p>Dean snorts. He and Dad figured out she killed him yesterday. He gives up on continuing the conversation after that and lets the family talk quietly back and forth while they wait for something to happen.</p>
<p>Just as Dean is starting to get bored enough that he’s considering talking again just to hear his own voice, the temperature in the room drops and his next exhale fogs the air in front of his face.</p>
<p>“Back up,” he orders and looks back quickly to make sure they’ve listened. When he turns back around, the ghost is standing right at the edge of the salt line. The lights in the room flicker on and off and Dean takes a step back and hoist the shotgun up. Both of the women scream and Dean shoots him right as he bursts into flames.</p>
<p>It’s the easiest hunt they’ve had in weeks. Dean sags a little, lowering the gun to point at the floor, and waits for something else to happen, but it stays quiet until his cellphone rings. He pulls the chunky Nokia out and hits the green button.</p>
<p>“Yeah, Dad?”</p>
<p>“Just finished, son. How’s it going over there.”</p>
<p>“We’re good. Some broken light bulbs. No injuries.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be there in ten. Meet me outside.”</p>
<p>No long goodbye, figures. Dean steps over the salt and gives the room one last check. The heat is starting to creepy back in.</p>
<p>“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mae breathes, putting a hand carefully on his arm. “I don’t know how to repay you.”</p>
<p>“We’re just doing our job,” he explains, gesturing with his head toward the salt on the floor. “You got that? My ride’s sort of going to be here in a few minutes and we’ve got to get going.”</p>
<p>She pulls her hand back, frowning worriedly.</p>
<p>“At least—Julie, can you grab those cookies?”</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t protest when she insists he take a plastic baggie of baked goods as a thank you. It’s the nicest gift he’s gotten on a job. Well, except when the women were <em>really</em> grateful.</p>
<p>When he slides into the front seat of the car, he slumps back with a sigh.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” Dad asks and Dean pulls open the bag and sniffs.</p>
<p>“Smells like maple bacon cookies to me.”</p>
<p>“Good thing you don’t give a damn about Kosher, huh?” Dean grins out the window and pulls one out. It smells mouthwatering delicious and looks homemade.</p>
<p>“If loving pork is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” he sings before taking a huge bite. Dad chuckles and reaches over to ruck up his hair like he’s still six-years-old again.</p>
<p>“You did good this time, Dean.”</p>
<p>He can almost hear Sam bitching from the back seat about Dad giving back ass compliments and needing to learn to let their fuck ups go. Not that Dean agreed with Sam, but it’s strange noticing the silence Sam left behind. He and Dad don’t talk about Sam and that’s… fine.</p>
<p>Dean swallows and shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth, looking for the houses with hanukkiah in their windows for something to do. He’s counts three before they hit Midpoint Bridge.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Sixth Night - 2007</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean makes a deal with a demon for Sam’s life on Pesach Sheni.</p><p>Sam finds out later, after Dean explains he was given a year by their calendar. Sam needs to know how long he has to get his brother out of this. It turns out it’s one of those holidays that Sam doesn’t remember and he feels ridiculous for having to pull out his copy of the Tanakh and read through Exodus and Leviticus and then finally, there is Numbers, he finds the passages he was looking for.</p><p>Sam tries not to look too hard into the fact that his brother is apparently going to die on a holiday created specifically for people made unclean by contact with the dead.</p><p>He doesn’t know what he expects from Dean now that there’s a time limit on his life, but the first time Dean disappears on a Friday evening and comes back wearing a yarmulke, Sam just lifts his eyebrows in surprise and doesn’t say a word. It becomes a thing that happens between cases then. Sam pretends he doesn't see Dean mouthing the prayers along with Sam in the mornings and evenings.</p><p>On Rosh Hashanah, Sam lets Dean drag him to a tiny synagogue in Texas that still has open seats and they eat apples and honey on a bench near the Riverwalk and discuss the case they’re working on.</p><p>The week after is the worst one in Sam’s life. Yom Kippur looms closer and Dean’s cheerful post-Rosh Hashanah mood disappears. Which, well Yom Kippur’s not a happy holiday, but Dean's barely acted like it existed in the past. They wind up sitting in the Impala after a shit show of a Tuesday, the Trickster in the wind, and Dean quietly laying out every wrong he thinks he’s perpetuated against Sam since they were kids.</p><p>Sam forgives each and every one, not because he thinks they're things Dean did wrong, except maybe that time Dean put itching powder in his clothes, but because Sam can’t argue with whatever logic has made Dean think he’s somehow failed him.</p><p>“We should get a hannukiah this year. Do it right. Like when we were kids,” Dean announces suddenly at the beginning of December.</p><p>“Dean,” Sam says, trying to be gentle but the bitterness towards John hasn’t ever really gone away, “Dad melted down the family menorah for silver bullets. Pretty sure nothing about how we did it as kids was right.”</p><p>The smile on Dean’s face falls a little and Sam feels a little guilty for it, but his brother just pulls his shoulders back like he's gearing up for an argument.</p><p>“Come on, Sam.”</p><p>“No, Dean. Just… just drop it, okay? We did Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur,” Dean flinches, “and we even did a couple days of Sukkot until that demon thing in Pontiac, but Chanukah’s not even a major holiday. The only reason you’re thinking about it is because we’ve been surrounded by Christmas crap for the last two weeks.”</p><p>Dean huffs.</p><p>“All right. You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”</p><p>He stalks off towards the Christmas tree lot across the street, opening the jacket of his suit and pulling out the FBI badge as he walks. Sam waits until he’s started talking to the lot owner before following after him.</p>
<hr class="solid"/><p>A week later they hit a dead end on the case and retreat to the motel. Sam throws himself down onto his bed with a sigh and starts pulling his shoes off while Dean shrugs out of his coat, tossing it over the back of the chair.</p><p>“You remember that year when Dad made a menorah out of beer bottles?” Dean asks excitedly. “That think was great.”</p><p>Sam looks pointedly at the laces of his boots, picking slowly at them while Dean keeps talking about how great of a memory it was for him and it’s so weird how different his brother’s memories are.</p><p>Because Sam remembers Dad drinking for a week straight. He remembers John getting angry at him for… something, the details are lost in the background, and Dean putting himself between them. He remembers Dean, dazed and bruised, sitting on the bed as Dad cried and apologized. Dean telling him it was okay, the words slurred as he repeated them again and again until Dad passed out.</p><p>He remembers being glad Dean was always there, ready to take anything coming Sam’s way. He hunches forward and notices his hands are shaking.</p><p>“Dude,” he bites out. “What is going on with you?”</p><p>Dean’s apparently made it his bed and he looks at Sam like he’s lost his mind.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Sam sit up and sucks in another breath, looking at Dean carefully.</p><p>“I just, I don’t get… it, whatever this is right now. You haven’t observed Chanukah in years, Dean. Why now?”</p><p>Dean goes still, hesitating like he’s debating how to answer the question. Finally, he rest his elbows on his knees and threads his fingers together.</p><p>“This is my last year, Sam,” he says shakily. “I’ve been trying to… you pray three times a day and I don’t get it. I’ve never got it, so I’ve been trying to get it, because this is my last year.”</p><p>Sam sighs and wrenches off his boot, tossing it across the room and watching it bounce against the wall. His voice breaks when he says, “I know. That’s why I can’t. I can’t sit here and light candles and think about the miracle and, and pretend everything’s okay when I know you’re going to be dead next year. I just can’t, Dean.”</p><p>Sam hates himself when Dean just nods. He’s going to take this hit for Sam too and there’s nothing he can do about it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Seventh Night - 2008</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dean wakes up again, Cas is still sitting in the ugly hospital chair on his left, which is… it’s weird.</p><p>Dean stares at him for a few seconds trying to process the fact that he didn’t flutter off sometime between Dean breaking down into gross tears and falling asleep. Especially since the angel seems to thrive on always getting in the last word on every single conversation. He just drops these absolutely ridiculous fucking lines with all the seriousness of someone who actually believes the words coming out of his mouth and then disappears, leaving Dean with his jaw on the ground.</p><p>It’s infuriating because Dean has no idea how to react or feel, but after so many pokes and prods at the blind obedience Cas wears like armor to excuse every shitty thing he’s done—including this latest fuck up with Alistair—he’s hoping this means something. Even if it’s just Cas waiting until he conscious to drop something else that’ll leave him raw and exposed.</p><p>“You’re still here?” he demands, pulling his eyes away from the angel and scrubbing at the dried tears on his cheeks with his fingers.</p><p>“Would you like me to leave?”</p><p>Dean doesn’t know how to answer that without having to admit something. He settles for letting the silence drag on for a few minutes until he has to fill it.</p><p>“Where’s Sam?”</p><p>“He left to find a hotel.”</p><p>Right. Of course. It’s probably been a few days since Dean was admitted.</p><p>“What day is it?”</p><p>“The thirtieth of Kislev,” Cas answers and he sits up in the chair, coat whispering against the pleather when he moves and Dean looks at him again in shock. Was he slouching?</p><p>“Right, you guys up in the tenth dimension default to thinking it’s fifty-seven sixty…” Dean scrambles to remember the year, but his brain aches with the effort, “whatever.”</p><p>“Nine,” Cas corrects quietly.</p><p>“<em>Whatever</em>,” Dean grinds out and he doesn’t even know why he’s annoyed about this, but the angel’s here and apparently volunteered to babysit Dean until Sam gets back and this whole situation is so absolutely fucked right now. “Fuck you.”</p><p>Cas doesn’t say anything, just shifts his shoulders and neck back and forth like he’s settling himself in his own skin and lets Dean’s anger slide off him like it doesn’t matter.</p><p>“So,” Dean tries again a few minutes later because now he’s awake and he doesn’t have a way to drown the awkward silence out with music, so Cas is just gonna have to deal. “Do angels light candles on Chanukah?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“The commandments weren’t written for us. We were created with the full understanding of the light of creation and it's within that presence that we live.” Dean watches him considering his words, gaze narrow and intense on the wall as he talks. “When a human performs a mitzvah, they're lighting a match in the dark. It’s a flicker of true divinity. For an instant, they hold the full power of God and your people within them.”</p><p>“So we're more divine then angels?” Dean asks, mouth twisting up in a grin. Cas shoots him an incomprehensible look but the hard line of his mouth softens a little.</p><p>“You wouldn’t turn on a light in the middle of the day, would you?”</p><p>Dean shakes his head carefully and asks, “Ever think about turning off the lights once in a while?”</p><p>“Angels aren’t meant to live in the dark,” Cas whispers and then he’s rising from the chair to lean over Dean, palm warm and dry as it presses gently to Dean’s forehead. Dean tries to flinch away from it, but there’s nowhere for him to go. Castiel shouldn’t touch him. He hasn’t showered in days and even though someone’s cleaned the blood from his skin, Dean knows it’s not completely gone.</p><p>“Cas, you really gotta look up personal space in the dictionary one of these days.”</p><p>There’s a deep hum under his skin and every nerve in his body lights up hot and cold and he thinks he must have imagined it when it fades almost immediately, but the world sharpens and goes bright. The pain that’s settled into every cracked part of him fades between one heartbeat and the next. He inhales so sharply at the suddenness of it that he starts coughing, leaning forward and squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>“Chag Sameach, Dean.”</p><p>When he opens his eyes, Cas is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Eighth Night - 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean hauls the camp stove out of the trunk with a grunt of pain, his right arm throbbing in protest at the strain. The long slice from their last hunt hasn’t quite healed and he’s pretty sure he just popped a stitch. He looks down and sees blood darkening the carefully wrapped bandage. Okay, maybe a couple of stitches. Son of a bitch.</p><p>“Need a hand?” Sam asks, striding over. His eyes flick down to Dean’s arm and widen. “Dude, what the hell? I just put those stitches in last night!”</p><p>He tries to shove the stove back into the trunk and wrestle Dean away from it and towards the table, but Dean tugs it back out with a glare and shoves his shoulder into Sam’s solar plex.</p><p>“Cool it, Hot Lips, I’m fine.”</p><p>Sam’s face goes squinty and bitchy.</p><p>“You’re literally bleeding.”</p><p>“Shut up and help me,” Dean bites out and Sam grabs the opposite handle with a thin irritated noise. If he gets more of the weight, Dean’s not complaining. They carry it over to the picnic table and drop it down onto the free space at the end so it’s facing outward. Hands free, Sam darts to grab him by the arm and shove him down by his shoulder until he sits on the bench.</p><p>“Let me get the first aid kit.”</p><p>“Don’t fucking stitch me up out here,” he grumbles, but Sam’s already digging into the trunk again. Instead of coming at him with a needle and thread, Sam just claps another thick piece of gauze onto Dean’s arm and forcing him to lift his arm up until he’s holding it out in front of his chest.</p><p>“Cas will be here soon, right?” Sam asks as he starts digging into his bag on the table.</p><p>“Hopefully.” It hadn’t exactly been a promise, but Dean’s pretty sure saying Castiel’s name into the wind should be enough to get his attention if he doesn’t show before sunset. He checks his phone. “We’ve still got plenty of time. You get to peel potatoes.”</p><p>“Why me?” Sam demands, but he’s already pushing himself up to trek back to the car, so Dean just keeps sitting at the table. “Tell me you bought knives. I’m not using my hunting knife to cut potatoes.”</p><p>“Ew, yeah, of course I bought knives. What do you take me for?”</p><p>“We had a head in our cooler three weeks ago and you filled it with beer this morning.”</p><p>“I cleaned it!”</p><p>Sam shakes his head and drops the bag onto the table. “Really not the point, Dean.”</p><p>They fall into an easy routine after that, Sam peeling and slicing potatoes and onions while Dean, still keeping an eye on his arm, pulls the insulated bag out of the backseat and unloads the flimsy restaurant casserole dishes he’d picked up on the way out here.</p><p>“You got kugel?” Sam asks suddenly, squinting at the dishes when Dean pulls the lids off and sets it aside. Dean grins at him.</p><p>Sam gripes about them doing this outside a few times, but Dean didn’t really want to be stuck in some shitty hotel room—they really don’t need to set off a fire alarm anyway—and they’re south enough that it’s not quite dipped into the fifties yet. This is as close to home as they have anyway, Baby parked a few yards away, and the two of them working together. A couple layers and a flannel pullover has Dean perfectly warm as he gets started frying latkes on the camp stove while Sam hauls the cooler over and pulls out condiments.</p><p>“Really, Dean? Ketchup?”</p><p>Dean points the spatula at him threateningly and Sam sets the jar of apple sauce onto the table with a <em>thunk</em>. The light above the table crackles and shatters, pressure dropping suddenly like right before a big storm. With a woosh of air, wings appear in the peripherals of Dean’s vision, jutting out and spreading wide at way too many angles to be real, oily nebulas and bursts of colors that make his eyes ache. Sam knocks over his beer bottle and Dean clutches the spatula so hard his hand starts to hurt.</p><p>“Rear it in a smidge, Sunshine,” he absolutely does not squeak and Cas folds them back into whatever dimension he’s got his real body tucked into with an apologetic frown. The full body tremble that he hadn’t noticed starting when Cas landed stops, but his shoulders are aching now.</p><p>“Sorry,” Cas says, having landed close enough that Dean can feel the heat off him. “I’m still working on keeping things from bleeding over.”</p><p>Dean jerks his head into a nod and jumps a little when Cas puts a hand on his arm, over the bandage. A sharp pinch of hot cold energy under his skin and the bandages and knife wound are gone. He loosens his grip on the spatula and gets back to the task of trying not to burn latkes with a hum of thanks. Cas doesn’t pull his hand away.</p><p>“Uh, looks like it’s almost time. You almost done, Dean?” Dean nods. “Cas, you wanna help me set up the hanukkiah?”</p><p>“Is that something that requires two people?”</p><p>Sam grins, practically bouncing with excitement when he says, “It does when there’s three of them.”</p><p>Dean can’t see Cas’ express but he feels the twitch of his fingers where they’re pressing against his wrist. Then the angel is sliding away to follow Sam. He lets their voices wash over him while he finishes cooking. By the time he’s sliding a plate of latkes onto the table, Sam’s got all three hanukkiah out of their boxes and on a sheet of aluminum foil and is pressing nine candles into Cas’ hands with an encouraging smile. There’s a wrinkle between Cas’ eyes and he’s narrowing his eyes in concentration as he puts the candles into place.</p><p>“Looks good,” Dean murmurs, sidling up next to him and pressing their shoulders together when he leans over to grab his own candles.</p><p>“Dean, angels don’t—”</p><p>“Turn on lamps at noon, yeah, yeah, I remember, Mothra.” Cas frowns at him and Dean fiddles nervously with his lighter in his pocket. Sam coughs. “Well,” he hesitates, suddenly nervous, “every Winchester does, okay?”</p><p>The surprised affectionate look Cas gives him makes Dean want to duck under the table and he fidgets and looks over at Sam, whose eyes are suspiciously shiny. Dean’s gonna punch something if his brother turns this into a moment.</p><p>“All right, all right,” he grunts and picks up the box of matches, tossing them at Cas. “Get your lighter, Samantha. Cas, you know the steps and words?”</p><p>“Yes, I think so,” Cas answers, striking the match and he smiling, “but I’ll follow your lead.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me over at <a href="https://kweh-not-wark.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>. I'm also on discord hanging around in the <a href="https://discord.gg/profoundbond">Profound Bond server</a> (18+ only) if you want to come meet some awesome Destiel nerds!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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